


Not All Those Who Wander are Lost

by sarahbeniel



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Character Study, Marvel Summer Fun and Fluff Fest Fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 14:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18966967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel
Summary: Natasha returns from a three-week-long assignment, ready to rest, but gets a text asking her if she has time for one more thing that night.





	Not All Those Who Wander are Lost

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Summer Fun and Fluff Fest (the title comes from a prompt for that collection, via Tolkien) but once I'd completed it, I realized there was nothing fun or fluffy or light about it, even if the ending could be described as "feel good", so I don't feel right submitting it to that collection after all.
> 
>  
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   
> 

 

 

The summer sun was just starting to sink behind the horizon as the jet sped along the coast, and it was a glorious view: all orange and fire over rippling water lit up by the glow, but nobody really cared. It was mostly quiet on board, everyone too wiped out for even the typical bullshit banter. Most of the grunts were dozing, strapped into the side-by-side seats in back, a few scrolling tiredly through their phones, all of them worn and filthy and ragged. 

She was in back alongside them, happy to let someone else fly the plane, as she worked on the problem in her head. The woman next to her— one of the newer recruits— was playing some stupid match-three game on her phone, but that was all right. She was far too chatty for Natasha’s taste, and the game was keeping her occupied. 

Natasha was leaning forward, forearms resting diagonally across her thighs so that her hands clasped in between, staring at the scuffed and dirty floor of the jet. Her neutral face belied the stir of activity inside as she processed an exchange she was still trying to decipher— a bit of intel they’d run down just twelve hours ago. She was sifting through it, piece by piece, no detail dismissed as trivial. 

Her phone chirped, cutting through her trance of analysis, and she pulled it out to check the message. 

_U got time for something_

She hesitated, pressing her lips together, and then rapidly typed out her response. 

_When where_

It was another minute, and then the reply came through. 

_8pm. water/north_

She considered all the variables, checked the current time. Part of her brain was still running the intel, concurrently. The woman next to her swore as she failed a level on her app. 

_I think I can make that_

 

* * *

 

They all deplaned and trudged back to base, heavy with fatigue and sweat— the sun was fully down now, but it was still hot and humid— and some of the guys were talking about a late barbecue, as everyone headed over to the locker rooms. 

She wasn’t really aware of walking the corridors, and she ignored the other women chatting and undressing around her as she stripped off her own dusty clothes, stepping into the shower while it was still cold, just to cool off, and then dialed it gradually up to hot. 

The beat of the water on her skin felt good, while the steam worked its way into all the nooks and crannies, coaxing out an accumulation of dust and grit. It’d been a long three weeks in the field, and they hadn’t had access to decent facilities for most of it. 

She was staring at the tile, the stains in the grout, the beads of water pooling and then spilling down the walls, but her head was still working on the problem... there was something wrong in that conversation; something she was missing— she just needed to find it. 

She could hear the scatterings of other, real-time conversations, punctuated by the occasional laugh, a locker slamming here and there, as she walked back, her hair dripping onto the towel wrapped around her body. She’d once again reached the end of the playback in her mind without any new insights. She sighed an invisible sigh and took a break from it while she got dressed. 

The thick black pants were the last thing she wanted to put on, but the upcoming ride demanded it. She tucked in the black tank-top, zipped up and buttoned the pants, grabbed the leather jacket and her boots, and shut the locker. 

She was lacing up the second boot when the young woman from before— the one who’d been playing the match-three game: McRae— paused on her way past the row that Natasha was getting dressed in. McRae was fresh and fit and had changed into some lightweight athletic shorts and a T-shirt, and was cleaning one of her ears with a Q-tip. 

“Some of us are thinkin’ of goin’ over to—” 

“Can’t,” said Natasha, cutting her off. 

McRae was a little slow, only now noticing the boots— the heavy pants— and Natasha made a mental note of it. Maybe too green. 

“You got another op?” 

Natasha didn’t reply, which was enough of an answer. She started making a quick braid in her hair, waiting for the woman to leave. 

“You, uh… you still leadin’ tomorrow?” 

None of the questions were appropriate, but Natasha wasn’t in the mood for a refresher course on protocol, so she just finished off the braid, triple-winding the end with a hair elastic, and then leaned over and zipped up her duffel bag. 

McRae got the message, and turned to leave. 

Natasha blew out a breath, watching her go, and finally spoke up, throwing the woman a bone. “Make sure you get enough rest— we got an early call in the morning.” 

McRae turned enough to nod her acknowledgment, and then kept going. 

Natasha waited until she was gone, and then she grabbed the leather jacket and her duffel bag and walked out on her own. 

 

* * *

 

There were only three other people in the weapons room by the time she got there— two women and a man— and they were seasoned enough to know not to talk to her while she cleaned her guns. 

The familiar movements of dissembling and cleaning the parts, the smell of the solvent, was conducive to fruitful analysis, and she took her time. She could still hear the other people in the room talking, but their conversation was like white noise— background music to the workings in her head. 

_You goin’ back out tomorrow?_

_Yup._

_Fuck, it never ends, does it?_

She finished the work in under an hour—reloaded and holstered her personal sidearm, locked up the guns she didn’t need, and stowed the duffel bag. She grabbed the leather jacket and headed out, saying, “See you tomorrow,” as she walked by the other bench, where the other three were still working. They were the only words she’d spoken aloud in fifty-five minutes. 

 

* * *

 

Nobody else was in the garage, but she could hear distant voices on the property grounds as she rolled the bike out— people out for an after-dinner run, or organizing that late barbecue. The air was still heavy with heat and moisture— like something you could scoop up if you sliced your hand through it. 

She put on her helmet and gloves, and then got on the bike, started it up, lifted the kickstand and headed out, away from the glow of the property and into the welcome darkness of the surrounding wilderness, the narrow, two-lane highway like a shadowy snake that wound through it. 

She’d considered staying in; she was as exhausted as any of them, and still had that problem to sort out, but it felt good to be on the bike— good to be away from the press of people and voices at the compound, to feel the tickle of the breeze on her neck where the collar of the jacket lay open in front. Not a single other soul was out there; it was just the curve of the road ahead, the trees on either side, the rumble of the bike between her legs, and her thoughts, still spinning, and it was good… 

She knew the way well enough to let the bike guide her while her mind continued to work the problem— to sift through the almost twenty-three minutes of scratchy audio tape that she’d committed to memory, playing it back like a recording, pressing pause when necessary, filtering out the clinks of ceramic cups on saucers and tinkles of cutlery that had cut through the barely audible voices of the men at the café… 

Even as she worked the words in her head, she could smell the pine needles, the moisture in the air, the heavy promise of heat and sweat… 

Twenty minutes into the ride, she slowed, pulled over, came to a stop, putting down her left foot, and turned the bike off. She flipped up the clear visor, pulled out her phone, and pulled off her right-hand glove with her teeth, holding it there as she scrolled through her contacts. She found the correct entry and opened a new text screen, typing it out quickly with one hand. 

_Hey. The Lithuanian was lying. In the time frame specified his ancestor could not have been in Vilnius. Most likely sent to gulag by Soviets. Check it out._

Satisfied, she put her phone away, started up the bike again, and continued on down the road. She felt marginally lighter, the burden of the itch now relieved, and for the next thirty-five minutes she simply enjoyed the ride. 

 

* * *

 

The entrance was unmarked, save for a narrow, unpaved road with a simple metal mailbox reflecting the moonlight. She stopped the bike and got off, checked the gate— it was unlocked— and pushed it open with a gentle _creak_ , and rolled the bike the rest of the way in. 

The air smelled like a campfire, and she could hear the buzz of insects all around, a rhythmic see-sawing of raspy reeds in the night. It was slightly cooler than at the compound, and she could feel and smell the change in the air from the proximity of the water. 

The night sky was pretty, lit up with summer constellations and a waning gibbous moon. She checked the time: 7:56pm. 

She rolled the bike next to the truck in the driveway and put the kickstand down, removed her helmet and hung it on the handlebars, and pulled off the gloves, shoving them into the jacket pockets. 

The front door was unlocked and stood open behind the screen door, no doubt to let in the cooler night air after the oppressive heat of the day. She pressed in the latch on the door handle, pulled the door open quietly, and stepped into the house. 

It was quiet indoors, and she shouldered off the heavy leather jacket, folded it in half and lay it over the back of the leather couch as she walked by, continuing on into the kitchen. She unholstered her sidearm and set it on the counter. 

Her favorite scotch was sitting out, a glass already poured and waiting, and her lips ticked up just a fraction at it, because there was nobody else who knew that about her. There’d been so many gifts of vodka over the years— assumptions made, because of her history… like a role that’d been slipped over her, like a second skin she never asked for, nobody bothering to wonder whether it was accurate— though, to be fair, she never bothered to correct them… what would be the point? 

She picked up the tumbler and took half of it, rolling it around in her mouth, savoring the smoky, buttery mouthfeel before letting it slide down her throat— smooth and warm, and not at all summery. 

She could hear the sizzle of food cooking on a grill now, just outside the open door to the rear, and the lovely aroma of smoked meats and roasted vegetables drifted in on the lake breeze, and her stomach stirred in approval. 

The terra-cotta brickwork revealed the shadow of someone standing there, manning the grill, under the strings of tiny golden globe lights that lit up the patio. She didn’t go out yet, still savoring the drink, sipping the rest of it slowly now, as she looked out the kitchen windows. 

The lake was visible in the distance, and the two wooden recliners sat side-by-side in the grass, facing it, waiting. Even from a distance, the water looked inviting after the hot ride, and she knew they’d be in it, later… 

She finished the drink and set the empty glass down on the countertop, pulling her lips in for a moment to taste the last wisp of flavor, and then she pushed open the rear screen door and stepped down to the patio, back into the humid night air, and in that brief moment all the masks fell away— the one gift she gave herself… 

And when they finally looked at each other in the thick fragrance of the evening, under the twinkling strings of lights and the softer glow of the stars high above, she was the first one to smile: a real one, her whole face changing, and that was a gift too— one she gave without even thinking… 

She took the hand the reached out to her in answer to her smile, clasping it as it pulled her in, and in that quiet, private moment, at once finite and endless, she was happy… and that was enough.

 

 


End file.
